


relinquere

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [57]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief, Loss, M/M, Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10074824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Episode tag to 5x13 (Diamond of the Day Part 2).His eyes are full and his heart is empty and hecannot let go.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tavern Tales March prompt (cloaks, masks, armour).

The armour makes him heavy — heavier than when Merlin had borne the weight of their shared Destiny on his shoulders, or when death had been dragging like a millstone around his neck. Even so, Merlin carries him tenderly. There is no need to hide his magic now, so he uses it to call the small boat to him across the water and lays his king inside, arranging the red mantle of his cloak just so around the still body. He crosses Arthur's arms over his chest, lacing his fingers together in a mockery of repose, and his hands linger on the mail, the slick shine of the hauberk and all the buckles and clasps he will never again undo. He brushes his fingertips over Arthur’s hair and cheeks. Lays his hand across the cool brow. Wherever he is, Arthur is beyond objecting to such touches now, but even so Merlin can't bring himself to kiss the faintly parted lips, not even in farewell. After all, this is not the end. Kilgharrah has told him that Arthur will live again.

 

Dawn is breaking. He stands thigh-deep in the water as the sun rises, gripping the side of the boat as though in keeping it close he might somehow prevent Arthur from leaving. The world seems very cold. A morning mist drifts off the lake, grey-white fading into lemon, into blue, and the birds he has disturbed from the rushes circle upwards into the clear sky. Everywhere there is moisture. It sinks into Merlin's clothes, his hair, his bones. He is a thousand years old. His eyes are full and his heart is empty and he _cannot let go_.

 

"No man is worth your tears," Arthur had said. And,

 

"You can't be a sorcerer. I would _know_."

 

Worse still had been, "I trusted you,” in the past tense, with its implication of things completed, over, finished. Gone.

 

"I'm _sorry_ ," Merlin whispers. Splinters of wood dig into his palms, sharp enough to draw blood, and his breath seems trapped in his chest, holding back the grief that threatens to tear him apart. He bends his head, closing his eyes. The water ripples outward restlessly, an impossible current tugging at Merlin’s legs, setting the boat rocking and nudging against his side.

 

Arthur had also said "Thank you" the way he said "I love you."

 

He opens his eyes. He thinks of the hand that caught Excalibur, of Kilgharrah's promise. Of Arthur looking back at him from the saddle of a horse on a dappled path, his white shirt billowing, eyes alight with mischief and affection as he rides ahead and dares Merlin to do any number of impossible things.

 

Sunlight breaks slowly through the mist, and he lets go.


End file.
